Fitting
by SilenceBeckoning
Summary: The Fates always planned it that way.


The sun was out and showering the land under in a pleasant heat. There were no clouds overhead that signaled any kind of storm or bad weather. There were no raindrops pelting the ground with a force that made the droplets of water richochet of the hard concrete he was laying on only to return to the ground in a much slower and subdued manner like in the movies.

He found this fitting.

He was lying in a pool of sticky, warm, dripping liquid the color of rose petals. It was almost artistic. The ground underneath him was painted a vibrant scarlet and would soon be covered completely by the beautiful red. Yet, there was not a cloud in sight; nothing to obscure the bright, sunny orb of light in the baby-blue sky. He knew this because he could feel it's warmth - a warmth much different than the one he was recieving from his blood, pooling underneath his - against his back, as that was the side of him that wasn't pressed hard against the rough concrete.

And he found this fitting.

It's ironic, he muses, how - just when it's all going to end - you are filled with such clarity and understanding about absolutely everything. You can see all the mistakes clearly, with such a discerning eye, when you dont have enough time - breath, life - to fix them. He can't exactly pinpoint when it was that he had started to turn evil, but he can name every instance in which he could have jumped from the path of wickedness and immorality to the right path; the path he couldn't seem to stay on during his life time, but didn't. He supposes that will be his regret when he passes away; the fact that he was blinded by the gain that the dark path might lead him to -no matter how much hardship, effort, or pain he would have to endure to get to the end result - that he never realized that he had turned out evil, bitter, and deceitful. He had become a villain.

The pain from his injury seemed to be leaking out of his body just like the blood was. It seemed as if he was becoming numb to the pain. That could only mean that it wouldn't last much longer; he would be dead soon. And, yet,he could hear the birds above sing a merry tune; a tune which a person might hear when they awaken to a new day or have had their "happy ending"; a sound that should have been out of place at this time.

And he couldn't help but think this was fitting.

After all, it was the cycle of life. Life. Death. That is what happens. The lives of others move on; new lives are born. Then, it starts all over again. His cycle was a bit different, distorted, as was the cycle of every demigod. This never-ending circle that rules the lives of demigods is shorter than the regular mortal's. He had tried very hard to survive, but he knew that he had known he wouldn't live very long. It's a cycle, and it's nothing new. He fully expected to die. The sign that black clouds were watching over this event was non-existent. He knew he wouldn't have felt it even if there was, but his eyes saw the fact that there wasn't rain, or hail, or even a dark sky.

But, it was fitting.

There were no tears shed, either. He knew there would have been, so he had done his best to prevent them. He had cut off all the connections he had before this war, severing the ties so tremendously that they all held a new-found hate in their hearts. He had acted cold to everyone who had been close to him those last few weeks before the Titan War, eyes showing a bitter hate that wasn't truly there. No tears should be shed, afterall. He was no hero, he knew that. No, the heroes were Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase and that satyr - Grover - and even Nico di Angelo, but not him. He had done horrible things - wicked things - and fell for the lies he had been told and joined the Titan Army to committ more monstrous acts. He was a dispicable person.

So, it was fitting.

It was fitting that he die at the hand of a hero. Don't all the stories with "happily ever after"s end that way? Don't they end with the villain being defeated by the hero? Because that's what he was: a villain. A villain that was slayed by the good side, and left to die on the unyielding floor because that was what he deserved.

It was only fitting.

So, there was no clouds, or rain. There were no tears or tragic ends. There wasn't a storm or winds or anything that a hero deserves when he dies because, remember, he was the villain. The birds sang, the sun shined, the clouds hid, and the sky was painted a magnifecent baby blue.

And it was fitting.

The fates always planned it that way. 


End file.
